


try to pretend you're a half-full cup

by ThunderPhang



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Character Study, Introspection, Self-Worth Issues, Stream of Consciousness, imposter syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25659235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThunderPhang/pseuds/ThunderPhang
Summary: Barnabas takes a moment for himself.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11





	try to pretend you're a half-full cup

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Fire" by Kimya Dawson.

The cacophony of celebratory, raucous laughter is left behind as Barnabas slips out onto the dimly lit terrace. Lukas parties, contrary to the patriarch of the household, have a tendency to spiral into unfettered merriment, rowdy and boisterous. 

It all melts away as Barnabas slinks himself further out into the cover of night, approaching the railing overlooking the grand estate. His elbows perch on the intricate stonework, settling on the cold stone while rolling his champagne flute between his fingers.

It’s a surprise to Barnabas, given the tranquility of the grounds on which the manor sits, that Mordechai continues to host these events at all. He has always been a reserved man, and whenever he attends gatherings outside of his home, he always makes certain to voice his displeasure.

Mordechai Lukas is a strange man.

Who isn’t these days? 

Barnabas slumps his shoulders, the residual joy washing away from his expression. A sigh draws from his lips as he hunches over what he leans against, eyes cast outward to the rolling fog just beyond the light. A frigid wind blows through him, whistling as much as it howls. He shudders, but doesn’t complain, even if any sane man would’ve taken it as a sign to head back inside to shelter, to sanctuary. Barnabas shakes his head instead, huffing through his nose as he draws closer in on himself.

Here, in the cold, in the quiet, there is sorrowful solace knowing nobody would follow him here, nor would they come looking for him. There is peace, and there is no company. 

There are no pretenses, no smiles, no engaging conversations. There are no names to remember, no families to note, no formalities to follow. No manners, no offenses, no dangers. It isn’t a headache to keep up with himself, nor is it dizzying or stifling. There is no competition with the other men in the room, nor is it a test of endurance to see how long he could keep himself attentive.

Barnabas is free to be himself, even if it’s just for a short, fleeting minute. 

He breathes in, deep, and exhales. His body follows the motion, muscles sagging and posture loosens. The glass is set down next to him, intertwining his fingers as he wearily blinks. Behind his eyes, there is a dull ache. In his knees, there is a dull ache. In his feet, there is a dull ache. Alcohol sits heavy in his head, in his arms, in his chest, and it staves off the cold. 

It helps clear his head. It helps him think. 

Alone, where it’s not loud, where it’s not cramped, crowded, confining, Barnabas can think for himself without others doing it for him.

This train of thought is not uncommon, these mental conversations he finds himself having during these private moments he steals away. It’s a healthy thing, Barnabas tells himself, to temper expectations, to be realistic. As easy as it is to get lost in the revelry, the illusion shatters upon closer inspection; how exhaustive, how meticulous, how challenging every step of the dance is. Barnabas has perfected it, in the quaint, unassuming way of his, but it’s a draining affair that leads him to hidden corners, to tuck himself away to selfishly catch his breath.

Barnabas shakes his head, unlacing his hands to comb them through the thick curls of his hair. His fingers are trembling where they settle.

Barnabas can listen. He’s good at that. 

It’s easy to stand on the fringes of conversation, to be the wallflower that soaks up words like the sun. He’s held by the elbow, and he laughs when everyone else does. He tries to keep every detail fresh in his mind, but he doesn’t inquire any further. He nods, he sips his glass, and when the small circle disperses, Barnabas is left lingering in the afterimage, holding onto the phantom sensation of when he was included in something. When he was important through sheer proximity.

That feeling has been creeping up slowly, he’s noticing. Noticing how he flocks to the wondrous men that encircle his life in a roundabout way, men that brush shoulders, that brush elbows with him. Brush lips with him too, on the occasion. He cherishes each word uttered into his ear, each smile sent his way - cherishes it for he is given nothing else to keep. Maybe he’s just desperate. Desperate for someone to make him feel important, make him feel listened to like how he listens to them. 

Some of them, so caught up in the ecstasy of attention, of devotion, couldn’t even spare a pitying glance Barnabas’ way to remind him that maybe there was a reason to consider him worthy of their regard in the first place. 

It’s intriguing, Barnabas finds, that nobody bats an eye when he vanishes off to catch his breath. Nobody asks where he went, who he was with.

He wouldn’t doubt that certain men would be dragging off another to have their way with them over this very railing, with the crowds inside calling after where they went off to. 

He folds his arms tightly across his chest, digging his nails into the sleeves of his coat, and pulls himself closer. He shudders in the chill, but lets out a hopeless scoff. 

Holding himself up against those in his circle, really - it’s laughable. Laughable to think that a candle would hold to a great flame. Barnabas studies, but that’s not good enough. Barnabas speaks, but that’s not good enough. Barnabas practices, practices, _practices,_ but that’s not good enough. There’s nothing remarkable about him, and it’s amazing they haven’t rooted him out yet, tossed him wayside to be discarded. There’s nothing he contributes, nothing he offers that surely they realise that by now there’s no value in keeping him around. 

What has Barnabas achieved that could even pale in comparison to the men in his life? 

Is it pity? Or entertainment? To watch a fool make a fool of himself?

Barnabas draws another deep breath, 

and startles when the solid weight of a large hand rests onto the small of his back. 

He practically jumps into the air, jerking to greet the host of the party in the flesh, his imposing figure looming over Barnabas as much as his absent stare was cast over the darkened landscape. 

“Mister Bennett,” starts Mordechai, deep and uncomfortably calming, “The festivities are inside.”

Barnabas freezes. His mind turns, but his body is slow to follow. A dozen questions, a dozen concerns, a dozen fears. To move is liable to draw offense, but the touch is alien, and all he manages to do is stiffen. It’s unwelcome, unsettling, as much as it is an opportunity, as much as strikes him dumb that this was happening at all. 

Mordechai is a man of intent. Of purpose. And his gaze draws to Barnabas.

Barnabas averts his eyes.

“So they are, Mister Lukas,” Barnabas cooly replies, hiding the shade of embarrassment over his demeanour, his presentation, before the host- no, Mordechai, no less. What a sorry sight he makes. What a pathetic sight he makes. 

Silence passes. Stagnant. Oppressive. The hand is an iron weight against Barnabas, a vice that fixes him to his spot. They share this - whatever _this_ is - for longer than Barnabas cares to admit, cares to know.

“I mean no disrespect by my absence,” Barnabas speaks out quietly, shooting a glance of worry to the larger man. He’s acutely aware of what can be implied from his lack of presence, how it could be an insult, but he knows he didn’t mean it in such a way. How else does he justify it? That he needs a moment to himself, when he’s invited here out of charitable, good will? 

“Join them, then.” Mordechai replies plainly and starts to guide Barnabas with his hand away from his corner, from his drink, “Unless you would prefer to hide elsewhere?”

It’s an offer. 

Any other man would’ve taken it as a blow to their pride, but what pride did Barnabas have to cling to to want Mordechai to crush it under his heel? It doesn’t make him any less blindsided by the insinuations, the conclusions Barnabas jumps to, the fact he lets out an audible gasp and stammers over whatever words he wants to summon. He blanches, while Mordechai regards him silently, unphased, unmoving, aside from what Barnabas could’ve sworn to be the twitch of a lip.

It disturbs him, far more than he feels it should.

“I’ll- I’ll return to the other’s company,” Barnabas stumbles out as Mordechai ushers him to the door, “As wonderful as the view is from here.”

Mordechai hums low in his throat, opening the door for Barnabas to cross the threshold back inside, where voices carry down the long, open halls. Revelry, lights, warmth. Barnabas craves it, craves the sanctuary, the familiarity, the safety, the normal, where he can pretend that the temptation of promise, attention, doesn’t lure him into something far more sinister that dwells under the surface.

“Find me if you change your mind,” Mordechai offers, but nothing more. He turns away, the touch receding, and starts walking silent steps to leave Barnabas to stand alone, dumbfounded.

Barnabas doesn’t overstay his welcome.

It’s not long before he integrates himself into the circles of the party once more, smiles and sips from a new glass. He laughs when there’s humour, and transfixes his eyes on whoever speaks. None of them comment on his absence.

His mind lingers on the ghost of a hand on his back far longer than he’d like to admit.


End file.
